


Golden Days Break Wondering

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [91]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, F/M, John in a kilt, Kilts, Lots of Sex, Rimming, Vaginal Sex, owning your desires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1598030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Last time John wore Mary's kilt, it was because his own clothes were in the wash. Now he's wearing it on special request. Mary gets to explore what is worn under this kilt, and John decides it's time to stop self-censoring and to admit out loud how much he loves it when Mary rims him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Days Break Wondering

**Author's Note:**

> The kilt made its first appearance in We Think It's Love Love Love. This is its promised appearance for more wicked purposes. Still to come: Mary in John's uniform; John's light bondage kink, and the combination of kilt, uniform, bondage and a sex toy. So much John/Mary smut coming along to make up for its lack before now...
> 
> The title is a lyric from Promised You A Miracle by Simple Minds - a Scottish band, Seemed appropriate.

It was some weeks before John had the opportunity to wear Mary’s kilt a second time. Between overseas project work for Mary and Nirupa and London cases for John and Sherlock, there hadn’t been much time for more extravagant plans than dinner, a walk in Hyde Park, and one hilarious afternoon at the cinema once more interrupted by Sherlock, who loudly wondered why they spent money on tickets when they could ignore terrible films and snog on the couch at home for free.

There were the occasional evening, morning, afternoon delights, of course. Sherlock and Nirupa got rather adept at colluding to give the couple a few hours together, when they could jam it into the schedule. There were rewards, the two geniuses had learned, to keeping their besties a little bit sweet rather than frustrated and cranky.

But this Saturday, Mary and John had entirely to themselves. Nirupa was delivering a guest lecture on applied linguistics at the University of York and Sherlock had travelled with her to spend time at the library there, investigating some oddity of a stained glass window relating to a medieval church in Kent that could have bearing on a slow burning case.

A whole day to themselves. They hardly knew where to start!

Actually, they had a fair idea.

Mary collected a tray of late breakfast things and carried them into the bedroom where she fully intended that they should make an absolute mess of the sheets. She walked in to find John regarding himself critically in her bedroom mirror, his lower lip thrust out in speculative judgement.

He was wearing the kilt, no belt, no sporran and _no shirt_. Mary almost cooed with delight. She liked the look of him in it – the relativeness broadness of his shoulders tapering down to his more slender waist and hips. John’s shoulders and upper arms were well muscled, and she loved the curve of his pecs. She also loved the hair on this chest and stomach and descended in a tantalising line below the waistband of the kilt. John’s stomach was pale and a little soft over harder muscle, and it made her want to press her face into the skin and lick his navel for a good, long time. Below the swing of the kilt’s hem – which draped perfectly over his arse, _thank you very much_ – were his nicely shaped and just-the-right-amount-of-hairy calves. She even loved his _feet_.

“You look gorgeous,” Mary told him, dragging out the syllables of the adjective.

John grinned, a little self-consciously, and raised an eyebrow. “As long as you think so.”

“I do. Here.” Mary put the tray down on the side table and went to show him her appreciation by running her hands over his chest. “Mmm. _Nice_.”

He laughed as he circled her waist with his arms, then kissed her lips softly. “You are very good for my self-esteem.”

“I didn’t think you had much trouble with that, actually.”

“Not so much, no,” John agreed, “Buggered shoulder and a face like a crumpled paper bag I might have, but I’m a crack shot, I’m a bloody good doctor, I can hold a tune and I can just about keep up with Sherlock on most days.”

“You have a _beautiful_ face,” Mary corrected him, running her fingers over his cheeks and ridges of his eyes, “So expressive. It’s a _wonderful_ face. I adore it. And you have a smile like sunshine, and your eyes are glorious… especially when you look at me like tha…” The rest of it was cut off in a joyful _umph_ as he kissed her thoroughly and she responded enthusiastically.

Mary’s hands slid over his bare ribs, to the waistband of the kilt, around the back to smooth down over the curve of his backside, while he in turn squeezed her bum with one hand and splayed the other between her shoulder blades to hold her close. She pinched his arse then, making him jump, and she giggled. “Luscious arse,” she murmured, patting the wounded part gently, “Don’t forget that either.”

He laughed as he pulled back a little to gaze at her. She kissed the tip of his nose and then rather more saucily licked his lower lip. He captured her own lower lip between his teeth, not biting, just a gentle pressure before he kissed her mouth again and nuzzled the skin along her jaw. When he pulled back a second time, his expression could best be described as solemnly exhilarated. “No-one else has ever made me feel like this, Mary.” 

Mary nudged his face with her cheek and her brow, loving the feel of his warm breath on her skin. She knew how he felt now, surely. She felt it too. Had it been the same for them both in the past as well? Feeling mostly that other people would like you better if you were someone other than yourself.

“How did they make you feel?” she asked, before thinking that she shouldn’t.

John didn’t seem to mind. “Like everything would be better if I could just be more… _normal_.” 

“Why in earth would anyone want normal when they could have _you_?”

“There you go again. Saying nice things.” John smiled that gorgeous can’t-believe-my-luck smile once more.

“You don't want to be normal,” Mary told him. 

“I used to. I used to wish I was. I thought it would make my life easier.”

“What do you think now?”  There was a bit of a challenge in the way she looked at him, a preparedness to have a stern discussion if his answer contained any doubt.

John grinned. “Normal is tedious. Who wants normal when I can have this? Sherlock and crime-solving and _you_. Anyway, I’m sick of editing myself to fit other people’s notions of what I’m supposed to be. Take me as I am or bugger off.”

Mary nodded her approval at this line of thought. “Twenty points to Gryffindor,” she told him, then laughed when he got that look that meant he was about to make a terrible pun. “If you have anything to say about magic wands, I’m kicking you out.”

“Not a word, I promise.” He kissed her throat, lipped at her ear and whispered into it, “Where do you stand on lines about stirring cauldrons?”

Mary slapped him on the shoulder in remonstrance but she was laughing. “You’re a bad man, Doctor Watson.”

“A very bad man,” he agreed, bringing a hand up to fondle her breast through her shirt. She arched into the touch and made a tiny mewling noise that made John moan in response.

“So we’re agreed,” she said, catching her breath, “No self-editing. We are who we are. Sod normal. We’ll have adventures instead.”

And so saying, Mary rucked up John’s kilt with her fingertips and once she’d gathered up the fabric, she pressed her palms against John’s bared arse.

“There goes the answer to the kilt question, then,” she giggled, and squeezed two handfuls of the lusciousness under her hands. John moaned and brushed a thumb over her nipple as he pressed his mouth to hers, sought her tongue, kissed her hot and deep.

She could feel his growing erection against her thigh, and leaned into it. She let go of his bum so she could hitch the kilt up higher, removing one of the barriers of cloth. John gasped and momentarily rutted against her leg. Then he made himself stop.

“No editing,” she murmured into his mouth, “Do it. I want to feel it.”

So he ground his hardened cock against her thigh and she squeezed his bum again, pulling him closer, while he panted against her neck.

“Did you… have any particular… ideas… about this kilt?” He asked, before dipping his head so he could mouth at her nipples through the cloth of her blouse. 

“So many. You've no idea,” Mary confessed, “I spent half the project meeting yesterday making dot points. I really hope that's not the notebook I left in the office.”

John only laughed at that and began to unbutton her blouse. He kissed  her sternum, then pressed hot, licking kisses against the pale skin of each breast, which quivered enticingly under his mouth. He lipped and licked his way to each nipple in turn, sucking each gently into his mouth, pulling tenderly on them, and Mary was reduced to wriggling and sighing for a moment. Then she firmly pulled away.

The kilt fell back into place, though the fabric at the front clearly bulged out of line. Mary pushed the palm of her hand against the bulge, then wrapped her hand around the shape of his cock through the fabric.

John panted a little harder. “That. Is very. Sensitive.”

“Good,” she said, and she dropped to her knees. She took the hem of the kilt in her hands and looked up at him, cheeky and wicked. “Brace yourself, baby, I’m going in.”

And then she ducked her head under the hem began to lick.

John braced his legs apart with a moan and looked down. His view was of the kilt splayed out in front of him, moving, and he could only see Mary’s back, and her bum resting on her calves as she knelt. He could see the bottoms of her lovely little feet too, and how her toes flexed in sympathetic delight with the motion of her… _oh god_ … her tongue and mouth

What John could _feel_ was Mary’s hands on the back of his thighs, her shoulders against the front of them, her tongue licking at his balls, his shaft, her mouth closing over his crown, the sensation of her sucking on him and, _god_ , now fondling his balls with one hand, and then running the tip of her finger over his perineum, back a little, not far enough, forward again, a sweet little rub and back forth against that bridge of skin between his balls and his hole. Her hands moved again, to massage his arse, pull him closer into her mouth, fingers now dipping in to rub against him there.

And he could still see nothing but the bobbing shape in the front of his kilt, and her wriggling toes and her wriggling bottom, indicating that he was not the only one having the time of his fucking life here.

Then the glory ceased abruptly and Mary reappeared, licking her flushed pink lips and looking rather a lot like the cat who got the proverbial cream.

“I want to lick you. Can I?”

Ah, only a pause in the glory then. John gently took her arms in his hands and guided her up so he could kiss her, and taste himself in her mouth.

“If you want…” he started, but took a breath.

He always did this. Never asked for it. When Mary offered, he’d say ‘if you want to’, as though it were only about her pleasure, and that his, in this matter of _rimming_ , of _anal play_ , was _incidental_.

John had enjoyed his introduction to anal play so very much that ever since, he always took scrupulous care with his bathing in the hopes of a repeat. Of which there had been several. Always instigated by Mary.

John had rimmed her as well, taking the opportunity during one particularly brilliant and enthusiastic half hour of cunnilingus, but Mary wasn’t as sensitive in that area as he was. She liked it well enough, though she preferred his mouth on her cunt – but she absolutely _loved_ playing with his arse, and he absolutely relished (and noisily, too) having it done.

John, he had to admit to himself, fucking _luxuriated_ in having his arse licked and fingered and played with. Quite a revelation, that. In over twenty years of sexual experience, he had no idea how he’d got this far without discovering that about himself. He was no slouch in the raunch department. He’d pulled in three continents. He’d received and given exquisite pleasure in locations everywhere from five star hotel rooms to army tents in hostile territory to postcard-perfect beaches under starry skies, but he’d never had the body-shaking orgasms or the outright joy he’d had in just two shared apartments in the middle of London with this wonderful, adventurous, brilliant woman.

No editing, they’d said. Time to own what he wanted.

“I would love it if you did that. I always love it when you do that. I want your mouth on me, Mary. Please. God, yes, please.”

Mary grinned, dazzlingly, and John wondered briefly that she felt the same elation he did at actually admitting to how much he loved it.

Mary bent her knees a little to run her hands up the back of his legs again, lifting the kilt behind him so she could squeeze two handfuls of his bum. She kissed him and then whispered, “On the bed, beautiful.”

John turned and climbed onto the mattress, knees just at the edge of the bed, legs splayed, and he felt very, very vulnerable and very, very, very turned on as Mary pushed the kilt up his legs again, the fabric gathered up around his waist. His cock was hanging heavy between his legs, thick and sensitive. The front of the kilt swung back a little, lightly against his crown and he keened a little at the sensation, and at the anticipation.

Mary murmured endearments, kissing one of his arse cheeks, then the other, and then her hands were on him, her thumbs pressing gently into the crease, parting his buttocks and then…

 _Oh god, oh god, oh god_ , her tongue, her lips, her mouth, licking and kissing and slicking over his entrance, lower over his perineum, his balls, back up, moist and hot and so fucking good, _so good,_ every nerve ending buzzing with it, with such intimacy, such boldness, such acceptance ( _no part of you is out of bounds to me, every part of you is wonderful and perfect, all of you, I love all of you)_ and he tilted his hips back, spread his legs wider, felt the kilt around his waist and the front of it against his cock and his bare arse in Mary’s hands and his hole wet with her kisses and her mouth _and and and…_

Her fingers, _Christ_ , her fingers in him, one, then two, gentle then firm, seeking that little gland, driving him absolutely crazy with it. He panted and swore and pushed back onto her hand and he could feel her smile against his skin as she kissed the swell of his arse, his spine.

“Oh, beautiful, beautiful,” she said, “We’re going to get you more toys for this. I’m going to make you feel so good.”

“You do, you do, god, please, yes….” He crooned and rocked back against her fingers.

Then suddenly those fingers were gone, leaving his arse tingling, his cock aching. She left one hand squeezing his bum, but her body was stretched along his back and side, her breath hot against his ear.

“I need your cock in me, John.”

John immediately turned on the bed, kneeling on the mattress and reaching for her. He helped her to strip off her trousers and knickers and then pulled her close to his body. She straddled him, over the top of the kilt, a wilful tease to herself as well as to him, and rocked against him while he finished unbuttoning her blouse using his fingers and teeth.

John held Mary tight in his lap and, pushing the blouse back, he bent his head to lick and suckle at her breasts, to play with the wonderful soft skin, the fabulous stiffening of her aureole and nipples. Because this was one of the things _she_ loved, the teasing and sucking and tweaking of her breasts, so she arched her back, giving him more access. Her blouse was half off over her shoulders, but they left it there, and she wriggled over his lap and felt his erection poking against her thigh and the back of her bum, through the kilt.

He wrapped his strong arms around her back, lifted up on his knees and turned again, putting her on the mattress. He knelt between her legs and then stared at the annoying kilt he was still wearing.

“Leave it on,” she said breathlessly, lifting her legs and rucking up the kilt with her shins, “Leave it on.”

A proper kilt wraps around too thoroughly to easily part the curtain, as it were, so he simply did the expedient thing. He hoiked the kilt up to free his cock and held the fabric aside as he positioned himself. Mary lifted her hips and spread her thighs and rocked her pelvis towards him. With one hand to steady him on the bed, the other holding the kilt up, he nudged forward, his cock dragging down through her pubic hair, over her clit, and then into the slick wet heat of her cunt.

He surged forward and then held still, panting, while Mary gasped and lifted her legs higher, which bunched the kilt up a little. He helped her to settle her ankles over his shoulders. It felt odd, and naughty, half clothed like this, portions of his thigh and bum bared while the rest was covered. Odd and fantastic. Then he let the front of the kilt fall, over his hips and hers. A sea of bright tartan obscuring the sight of his cock buried in her cunt.

They could feel it though. _Oh, Christ, yes_ , they could _feel_ it.

John pumped his hips slowly at first, a long dragging glide that maximised contact of his bare chest against the backs of her legs, the front of his thighs against the back of hers, his knees pressed against her bum, his balls brushing her skin higher up, his shaft dragging in and out, just below her clit, not making direct contact, but the indirect contact, _oh my fucking lord_ , that was good.

He leaned forward, hands either side of her arms, and suckled her breasts again while his hips rolled in their slow, inexorable, magnificent way, filling her up with his hardness, pushing inside her, the coiling excitement in his body making the nerves in his arse still hum with pleasure, just as the nerves in his balls and his cock (and his legs and his mouth and his chest and his belly) added to the choir of _holy holy holy fuck **yes**._

Then she spread her legs wider, wanting more of him, harder, faster, deeper, _oh god yes_ , and she lifted her feet from his shoulders and pressed the arches of her feet to his hips to hold herself open as she thrust to meet him. John wrapped his hands around her hips then, to pull her towards him as his own thrusts got faster and faster. He lifted up higher on his knees to give him a better angle to push down as well as in, and Mary groaned.

And still they couldn’t see where they were joined, only feel.

He couldn’t watch his cock sliding into her, but he could feel it, _so good_ , and watch her breasts move as their bodies rocked together – he let go one hip, and tweaked her nipple to make her cry out in pleasure and push harder against him – and he could watch her face as she abandoned herself to the pleasure of him inside her. Then he held her hips again, kept her body lifted with that strength she so loved, kept pulling her to him as he pushed into her, _my god, my god_ …

Harder, harder, faster, _god yes_ , the feel of the kilt against his skin, his waist and bum, the top of his legs, and for her, the wool on her stomach and legs, while underneath, hot and slick and hard and fast, his cock slamming into her, sending exquisite vibration through her body, through her cunt, to her clit, _god he was good at this_.

And then his body was quaking with orgasm, and she ground forward against him as he came, and Mary began to come herself, her feet pushing on his hips as she thrust her pelvis towards him, and he moved his hand so he could  shove the kilt out of the way and brush her clit with his thumb and she was thrashing under him, and shouting, and his other hand softly pinched the nub of a nipple and she thrashed harder and came so hard she could hardly breathe at the end of it.

John knelt between her thighs, still inside her, grinning and panting, as she lay back on the bed and dropped her legs so that her calves rested against his hips. She grinned back, and started laughing, and so did he, and it was the laughter that moved their bodies apart so that his softening cock slid out of her at last.

John leaned across her body to kiss her mouth, the corner of it at least, when she didn’t stop giggling.

“You,” said Mary, between bouts of happy laughter, “Are so hot in a kilt. And you have a sexy bum.”

John pressed his face into her throat as he laughed too, the sound turning into a breathless giggle. “You’re inspirational,” he said, “I like a woman who’s good with her hands.”

“And her tongue.”

His laugh turned into a bit of a snort, and then he kissed her hard, their tongues entwining for a moment. It didn’t matter where her tongue had been not so long ago ( _no part of you is out of bounds to me, every part of you is wonderful and perfect, all of you, I love all of you)_ only that she was magnificent, and he adored her. Absolutely and without reservation.

The kiss ended in a series of little kisses then Mary rubbing the tip of her nose against John’s. “I was going to serve brunch up all over your belly and lick cream out of your navel.”

“Gimme an hour,” John said, “Or try it anyway. Sounds like fun.”

Mary reached out half blindly towards the tray on the bedside table, then had to turn her head to see what she was doing. She brought back a chocolate biscuit – a Penguin – one of John’s favourites. She took it from the wrapper and fed one end of it to him, and as he bit down, she bit the other end of it. Crumbs went everywhere as they met in the middle to press lips lightly. John swallowed his half and then licked crumbs from Mary’s chest and throat while she giggled, until he finally moved to lie alongside her, a leg hooked over hers and his nose pressed to her cheek.

“Oh, this one looks like you!” Mary declared, showing him the wrapper picture of the flamboyant penguin on a purple background. “He looks like he’s singing.”

 _“Midnight creeps so slowly into hearts of those who need more than they get,”_ sang John in his best soul voice, but in a higher pitch, into her ear, “ _Daylight deals of bed-head to a penguin who has laid too many bets.”_

“Since when do you know the words of Gloria’s Heart Song?”

“Some bright spark sent that film to the unit when we were stationed out Kandahar way, and some other bright spark played it on loop for four days. Until someone else who deserved a medal took the disk outside and shot it dead.”

“Wasn’t you, was it?”

“I’m innocent as a lamb. And it didn’t help anyway. All those bloody songs are still in there.” He tapped the side of his head.

“Poor baby.”

“Why _you_ know _Happy Feet_ so well is another mystery entirely.”

“No mystery. I love that little film.”

And she started to sing _A Mi Manera_ in a deliberately throaty croak until John fed her Penguins to make her stop.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The other songs are from Happy Feet, and the penguin wrapper Mary says reminds her of John is [ the one on the left.](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_2Sx7zKLcPQE/TCiosijeraI/AAAAAAAACtc/xnhoI0e6M2g/s1600/P1010002.jpg)


End file.
